


I am not in love with you

by Literarion



Series: Introspections [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Has Feelings (Good Omens), Introspection, M/M, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:13:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22563802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion/pseuds/Literarion
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Introspections [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1939894
Comments: 17
Kudos: 48





	I am not in love with you

I am not in love with you.

In awe of you, perhaps. Maybe, if we stretched the definition, and I'm not saying that we are, I might find myself a tad smitten. Just, you know, that feeling where one can't stop thinking about something. Or someone. Or the like. Not saying that I can't stop thinking about you, of course. I'm sure I could stop, thinking about you, anytime. If I chose to. I just don't choose to, because... Well. As I said. A tad smitten. Nothing wrong with that. It'll pass, eventually. No need to talk about it.

But it's nice, isn't it? That feeling. All warm and fuzzy and sparkling. Do you remember that champagne in France in 1725? That sort of sparkling, the one that lasts, you can feel it trickle all the way down, from your tongue, as it passes through your thick-swallow throat, down your neck, until it curls up and sizzles in your belly. You had a few drops left on the corner of your mouth there, and I wanted to lick them off. Stuck out my tongue, licked my own lips, exploring the same corner on my own sad self. Just about ready to bend over to yours, but then you noticed, and dipped your own tongue there, tasting both sparkle and lip, did not waste a single drop. That, also, made me feel all prickly, maybe for the first time, maybe for the hundredth, who am I to count. And that's what I mean, right? Why would I want to stop such a thing. Or enumerate it. S'nice.

You're nice, too. I've heard. Some of it, I may have seen. First-hand experience. You've been nice to me. That one time, that first time, there on the garden wall. Extended a wing, where by rights, duty bound, you should have extended a sword instead. But that sword was gone, already, for another kindness, to another one in need. And so it was a wing, for me. I always knew you were kind to everyone, how could I not, from that very start, that very first glimpse of who and what you are. It wasn't unique, you see, _I_ wasn't unique. Your kindness extends to everyone. Even to those who don't deserve it. Even to me.

But that, still, is not grounds to speak of love, now, is it. Many people are nice, are kind (though not many of your kind). Some are even nice to me. Not all, but, still. You're not unique like that either. There was a girl, in Rome. You had left me there, all wanting and confused by it, after we had oysters at Patronius'. The way you sucked that tender meat in, lemondrops on your chin, a glazed look on your face, and your eyes on me, dark and questioning. Questions suit you, sometimes, but it scares me when you wear them. When you raise that eyebrow, get that distant look, that what-if expression on your face, that curiosity in your eyes that does not come natural to your mind. Those eyes on me, hot and cold and _needing_ something, some questions, maybe, or an answer to one neither of us dares to pose. Did you know, then? Did you know what you did to me, did you know that feeling, feel it yourself? Sound out that depth in your own soul that your knowledge-seeking, confirmation-hungry eyes sought in me? I always wondered, tell me, was this on purpose, the way you licked your lips, your hand buried in the tablecloth, that brush of your fingers on my jaw, the press of your hip against mine on the chaise, and your eyes, that locked on me, that flush on your cheeks. And then you left. _That_ was decidedly _un_ kind. Stumbling onto the road, alone, wanting and confused by it, what was I to do? She was there, took me in, showed me some form of relief, there in her loft room, on a bed of straw. You were just the first to be kind to me. Not the only one. And you were not always. I haven't forgotten. I never will.

I like you. Not because you're nice, though I probably wouldn't if you weren't, at least most of the time. You're funny, too, though I don't think you know, sometimes, just how much your silly comments make my heart swell. How can someone so stuffy and stuffed be so outrageous? That one time in England. Before it was England. Some damp place, muggy. You stomped off, all high-spiriting, but you know and I know that that was show. You knew then and I knew then, already, that you were sold on the idea of _collaboration_. This time you found me, later, when the sun had disappeared and even more dampness had cropped up. In my tent. And in your armour, of all things. Not quite the ninja, I could smell the rust and hear the creaks from a mile away. You don't take care of your wings, I shouldn't be surprised you treated your metal shell no better. I'm glad I never met that horse of yours, for several reasons. But regardless, you found me, rusty and damp and with a bottle of some vintage or other, cancelling out the cold, like we cancelled out each other. And you made me _drink_ for it. You! An Angel Of The Lord, competing with a former colleague, telling crude jokes over wine. I'll never forget the creak of your metal joints.

Then, a gamble, the last one standing owing a favour. I never told you I fell over on purpose. I _wanted_ to owe you, you see? I still do. You never collected. And I wonder how you never figured that one out. Or maybe you did, and were to kind to tell. Oblivious as you can be, you are not stupid. That Tadfield business, putting those hints together, following breadcrumbs left by a centuries-past prophet. I couldn't have done it. I couldn't have done it _without you_.

Anyway. Where was I? You, and why I like you. Or don't. Or whatever. You're. passionate. Opinionated. Again, and again, and again. But still. None of these are grounds for love. I remember, you see, all those times I did not love you. In Rome and in Eden, on Hills and Plains, always, always in the rain. I never loved you in the rain. I am _not_ in love with you.

I only find myself fascinated by the way your fingers brush crumbs from your sleeve. By that little smile you gift to strangers sometimes, (and sometimes to me), where you seem to struggle to contain your glory, nearly bursting at the seams, and if you're not careful, you might, _might_ be tempted into a full, proper grin. It's genuine, and it's, for my sins, glorious, and I always, always wonder if, if I were to tickle that seam, just a bit, could I, maybe, release one of those to bask in? I'm a snake, you see, I need the warmth. To curl up on a rock and let your sun warm my scales. Could I? What do you think?

How genuine am I in my attempts to become a part of your life? I react and interact, I praise and promote. I do not touch, and I do not woo. Never. Not because I wouldn't want to (Do I want to? Maybe? ( ~~I do, I do, I do.~~ ), but because it seems uncalled for. It might be unwelcome. Or not, but how would I know? How would you know that I could do these things, given both our situations? Given what you are and what I am.

So I remain on the threshold, constantly. Keep the door open for you, invite you in, hope for an invitation in return. Hope for slivers and pieces of attention. Bask in them as they are forthcoming. Warm my scales in your sun, in your kindness. Not loving you, but always on the threshold of what-if.

Is this genuine? I would want so much more from you, were I allowed, did I allow myself to even consider. I want to know what your lips taste like, the smell of the hair behind your ears, the exact measure of tenderness of the skin on your wrist, what your eyes look like when they are half lidded in ecstasy.

But it is so much more important for me to have you in my life, than it could ever be to have you in my bed. Or on a garden wall. Or against a bookshelf, right where we stumble into your place. Your space. Your rules. What are rules now, do they still apply, after everything? Can I still not touch?

Does it make my actions less genuine, the way I do not love you? Does this other meaning, the one I do not admit to myself (I would admit it to you, if you asked, if I thought in any way that you were interested, if this could lead somewhere), does it lessen the value of our friendship that I want to bed you? Does it change what I can be to you, if you knew all of this? What am I to you, anyway?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] I am not in love with you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22778614) by [Literarion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion/pseuds/Literarion)
  * [I am not in love with you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27383263) by [Luninarie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luninarie/pseuds/Luninarie)




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